


Withdrawal

by PixieJinx (Fireloom)



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: C137cest, Drug Withdrawal, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Silent Treatment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:55:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24390931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireloom/pseuds/PixieJinx
Summary: Rick and Morty are withdrawing from an alien stimulant. Morty's not taking it well and Rick is being no help.
Relationships: Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Comments: 11
Kudos: 77





	Withdrawal

**Author's Note:**

> My first Ram fic! A huge shout out to my friend and Beta @necklaceofdiamondsandpearls. You rock! Con-crit greatly appreciated. Enjoy!

Morty Smith, a young man of seventeen years, scrolls through his phone. He's curled up on a hotel bed, his feet tangled in the sheets. 

It's a bad day. 

Morty absently scratches at his arm, unnoticing of the red marks his nails leave behind. His phone gives him no solace from his ever darkening thoughts. 

Morty had a big day. He and Rick went to a planet in the backwash of the universe; a scrappy, busy place, filled with adventures to be had. And had they were. They found themselves in the thrall of an Althurein sunset celebration. Rick smeared neon coloured jelly all over Morty's skin. Fasosa, as it's called on this planet, is an amphetamine-like drug. It gives an intense and euphoric buzz, lubricates social skills, and opens the analytical mind. The high lasts for hours, but so does the come down. 

Morty is not inexperienced with Fasosa, but he always forgets how devastating the withdrawal is. It's scary how quickly something good can turn so bad. 

It itches, everywhere. His skin, his mind. And scratching only makes it worse. There is no reprieve from the ever present paranoia or the sickening boredom. Only time can yield normalcy. 

Morty hasn't slept. Not in a long time. Between running weapons the night before last, and partying his ass off last night, Morty hasn't had the chance. But now, as he's nestled away in a bungalow on a hot and muggy afternoon, sleep is nowhere to be found. And if it did come to Morty, it would be a painful, half waking fever dream. 

Morty takes deep breaths, and rolls around on the bed. Nothing is comfortable, nothing eases the ache in his chest, nor the strenuous energy buzzing in his limp and tired body. It's no fun at all. 

Rick Sanchez, however, seems to be doing just fine with his come down. The lucky bastard. He's watching a Spanish show on his laptop. Apparently it's a funny show because Rick chuckles every now and then. 

It's infuriating. 

Morty tried to learn Spanish, he really had. He studied for months. Ever since he heard Rick's hushed " _Eres mio,_ " one steamy night on a moon orbiting Jupiter, Morty fell in love with the language. 

But learning another language is hard. Though Morty has progressed a long way, he still can't follow along with TV shows. If Morty could understand he could watch it with Rick. They could _connect_. 

But he can't. 

And right now hearing Spanish only worsens his low self-esteem. 

Morty musters up the strength to climb out of bed and situate himself next to Rick on the couch. He nuzzles into Rick's arm, and interlaces their fingers. 

On the computer screen are three people sitting around a table ladened with microphones. 

"What are they talking about?" Morty mumbles, taking in the gentle susurrations of the language he can't grasp. 

"I-it doesn't translate well," Rick brushes him off, sight locked onto the pixels and heart locked away from Morty.

Morty hums in reluctant acceptance, though his gut sinks with disappointment. He watches in idiocity and feels like a real moron. 

Morty stims at Rick's hand, pinching the skin of his palm and rolling his fingers around. 

Rick pulls his hand away from Morty and shuffles toward the end of the couch, leaving Morty with a cold side and a metaphorical stab wound. All with not a glance in the young man's direction. 

Morty scoots away and slumps against the backrest, leaving a passive aggressive one foot between himself and Rick. Morty's fingernails find their way to his bitey teeth. 

Rick laughed. Not at Morty, oh no. Rick was entertained by some random person on a fucking TV show. 

Morty's state of mind changes. The delerium rapidly moves upward, melds itself with barely contained paranoia, and infects Morty's chest with resentment. 

Morty knows what's about to happen. He could reason himself out of it. Try not to be so helpless on his own, do something that isn't bothering Rick. It's only a phase. And it's not like Rick being cold and distant is unusual. It would pass soon enough. It would be normal again. 

But waiting is torture, and Morty never deals well with silent treatments. 

"You could try... Try to tell me," Morty pushes. 

Rick grumbles something like the combination of "what?" and "no" as he tilts his body away from Morty. 

Morty huffs, making sure to let Rick know just how much of a bitch he's being. 

Morty snaps to his feet and returns to the bed and his boring phone. Maybe he'd play a video game, or learn the tabs to a new song, or watch the interstellar equivalent of Vine; anything to get his mind off how lonely he is in Rick's company.

It's all infuriatingly _boring_. 

Morty aches for any stimulation that would distract him from his impending fall into a Fasosa hole. 

Rick cackles, loud and joyously and Morty seethes.

He kneads at the pillows, curling his restless hands in the covers until they hurt. This day is only getting worse, and Morty can't stand being left to his own devices. 

"Do you want to- wanna do something?" Morty addresses the room with disguised desperation. 

"Like what?" Rick's monotone voice carries disdain for Morty's interruption. 

That's a good question. Morty runs through the list of things they'd normally do together in a day. None of it seems appealing in any way, not even _boob world._ Morty can't come up with a single thing that would be more entertaining than wallowing in synthetically induced psychosis. 

"I don't know," he admits, feebly. 

Rick grunts and sprawls out over the entire couch and armrest. 

Morty dramatically chucks his phone on the soft pillows and stalks over to Rick.

"I'm bored," Morty announces, crossing his arms and glaring at Rick. 

"Do something then." Rick doesn't look up. Morty's hand itches to grab the bastard by the neck and force him to look. 

But Morty's flair of rage depletes in record time, and he sulks onto the couch. He leans back on Rick's leg slung over the couch back. 

"C-come on, Rick," Morty whines. "This is... I'm so bored," 

Rick doesn't even talk back this time, worsening Morty's already fraying nature. He's just going to ignore him. 

"Come on..." Morty reaches out and places his hand on Rick's hip. "Let's just... Do something."

Rick squirms further up the armrest, and as a final blow to Morty's bleeding heart, pushes Morty's hand away from his person. 

Someone on the TV show says something apparently funny. The cast laughs, the audience laughs, _Rick_ laughs. 

Morty can't take it anymore. He slides forward, coaxing his way between Rick's legs. 

"Rick... C-come on," Morty whimpers, trying to be cute. This sweet, pity filled tone usually gets Rick's attention, but not this time. 

Morty crawls further up Rick's body, grabby little hands landing on shoulders, clavicle, ribs, anywhere. 

Rick half-heartedly wriggles underneath Morty, pressing his hands up against Morty's chest in weak protest. 

He still. Didn't. Look. 

"Rick." Morty hates how pathetic he sounds, indirectly begging for any scrap of attention from the mean old bastard. He hates this _treat them mean, keep them keen_ bullshit. 

Rick shoves a little harder, furrowing his brow and growling lowly. 

"Rick!" Morty reaches over and slams down the lid of Rick's laptop. 

"Morty, what the fuck?" At last, Rick looks at him. 

"Stop ignoring me!" Morty presses down on Rick's chest as if he was giving CPR. Rick snatches his wrists and lifts Morty's front away from him. 

"You're so fuckin' _needy_ ." Normally Rick says this with a _don't_ ever _stop needing me_ tone, not this horrible _go the fuck away_ tone.

Morty's eyes sting with tears. 

"Just... Just stop it," Morty utters as salt drips down his cheek. 

Rick groans dramatically but he softens a fraction. He let's Morty down to rest on his chest. 

The tiny gift of kindness buries a warmth deep inside Morty. It's all he wants. 

Rick exhales a fed-up sigh. "You're a F-fucking baby." 

Morty finally relaxes, melting into his mate's reluctant embrace. The warmth, the musky smell, the tickle of soft, light hair at Morty’s cheeks. It's home. And Morty hates being locked out. 

"W-what do you want, Morty?" Rick sounds just as tired as Morty feels. 

"Come to bed?" Morty mumbles into the crook of Rick's neck.

"Sure." Rick rises onto his elbow and makes Morty sit back before heading for the double bed. Morty clambers after him. 

Rick climbs into bed and Morty follows suit. Like two beings of a hive mind, synced and fluid, they take each other in their arms as they've done every night for years. Morty burrows into Rick's chest and heaves a great sigh. 

This… This is better. Morty is still sick, tired and wired, and sleepless; but Rick's here. That's all that matters. 

Rick swats an arm out and grabs something behind Morty's head. A few moments later, that Spanish show whispers through the speakers of Morty's phone. 


End file.
